A Poem Worth ReadingThis arrived in my inbox from a friend a few minutes ago

He was getting old and paunchy And his hair was falling fast, And he sat around the RSL, Telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he once fought in And the deeds that he had done, In his exploits with his buddies; They were heroes, every one.

And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors His tales became a joke, All his mates listened quietly For they knew where of he spoke.

But we'll hear his tales no longer, For ol' Bob has passed away, And the world's a little poorer For a Soldier died today.

He won't be mourned by many, Just his children and his wife.. For he lived an ordinary, Very quiet sort of life.He held a job and raised a family, Going quietly on his way; And the world won't note his passing, 'Tho a Soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth, Their bodies lie in state, While thousands note their passing, And proclaim that they were great.Papers tell of their life stories From the time that they were young But the passing of a Soldier Goes unnoticed, and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution To the welfare of our land, Some jerk who breaks his promise And cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow Who in times of war and strife, Goes off to serve his country And offers up his life?

The politician's stipend And the style in which he lives, Are often disproportionate, To the service that he gives.

While the ordinary Soldier, Who offered up his all, Is paid off with a medal And perhaps a pension, small.It's so easy to forget them, For it is so many times That our Bobs and Jims and Johnnys, Went to battle, but we know,

It is not the politicians With their compromise and ploys, Who won for us the freedom That our country now enjoys.Should you find yourself in danger, With your enemies at hand, Would you really want some cop-out, With his ever waffling stand?

Or would you want a Soldier-- His home, his country, his kin, Just a common Soldier, Who would fight until the end.

He was just a common Soldier, And his ranks are growing thin, But his presence should remind us We may need his like again.For when countries are in conflict, We find the Soldier's part Is to clean up all the troubles That the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honor While he's here to hear the praise, Then at least let's give him homage At the ending of his days..

Perhaps just a simple headline In the paper that might say: "OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING, A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."

Fat, you know what's really sad? I'd look at those geriatric doddering old diggers, WW1 veterans, back in the days when there still were doddering old WW1 veterans (no disrespect intended here btw). When did the last one die? Only a few years ago I think. But certainly back in the 1990s and 1980s there were still a few around. I lived in Canberra and you'd see them at the War Memorial for the Anzac service. They'd be there, looking at least 90 in the shade, dressed in their suits but wearing their medals and their slouch hats and sitting in their wheelchairs. What struck me was that here were these frail old men in the 1990s who'd been involved in events of 80 years previously, in their youth, and these events defined the next 80 years of their lives. The older they got and the longer they lived, the more they became public property and the more those events of their distant youth, the best part of a century in the past, defined who they were.

They were casualties of that war right up until the end.

I sometimes wonder that if we could hear their ghosts, what you'd hear would be something like: "Oh bloody hell, not another flamin' Anzac Day! For gorsakes give us some flamin' peace!"

Maybe the time is coming that "ne obliviscaris" should be changed to "requiescant in pace".

Here's why electoral Armageddon stalks the Turnbull Government and every Coalition Government that follows it should Turnbull stumble: every electricity bill is a hate letter from Tony Abbott climate change denialists, who promised cheaper power and delivered rise after rise after rise to households

When I was lad in cadets playing a snare drum in a band on ANZAC day in the Sydney march, some of us after the march went to a pub in Woolloomoloo, albeit well under age, and the Tom Uren came to our table being the only cadets there, and he said after customary greetings... "lads, forget the glory and don't ever forget what those bastards had done to good men"...didn't know who he was at the time but in his presence we all knew and agreed he was a honourable and distinguished gentleman of some notabilty, judging by the way other patrons/ex-servicemen greeted him.

He had the ploughman's strengthin the grasp of his hand;he could see a crowthree miles away,and the trout beneath the stone.He could hear the green oats growing,and the south-west wind making rain.He could hear the wheel upon the hillwhen it left the level road.He could make a gate, and dig a pit,and plough as straight as stone can fall.And he is dead.